


lipstick stains like acid rain

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Butt Plugs, Clothed Sex, Comeplay, Desperation, M/M, Public Humiliation, Semi-Public Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Wall Sex, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: “What does that say?” John says, trying to twist to read it in the mirror, but Tim keeps him still.“Just finishing your makeup,” Tim remarks. “And it says needy whore.”or, tim writes some dirty stuff on john in lipstick, sticks a plug in him, and then they do jimmy kimmel live.





	lipstick stains like acid rain

**Author's Note:**

> [mario kart toad scream]
> 
> so this fic is based around [this kimmel appearance right here.](https://youtu.be/kNefO5hN2IU) just with more subtext.
> 
> this one fought with me and i'm not even positive i'm happy with it lmao but whatever.
> 
> the brian appearances are all ideas from my boyfriend julien who honestly keeps me sane when i'm writing like i genuinely don't know what i'd do without him to hold my head together when i have too many ideas
> 
> quick content warning: there's a lot of use of whorephobic slurs in here so if that bothers you turn away now. words like slut and whore. otherwise we good.
> 
> title from wasp by motionless in white
> 
> ETA 5/3/18: [dvd commentary of this fic is here on my blog!](http://skold.tumblr.com/post/173539698372/lipstick-stains-like-acid-rain)

John Lowery is terribly distracting.

Tim keeps catching himself looking over his reflection's shoulder, back at the hotel bed. John hasn't bothered to get dressed yet, still doesn't have a stitch on, save for the white sheet covering his bottom half. He's stretched out on his back with his arms above his head, eyes closed, as if he's asleep, but Tim knows he isn't.

Fuck. He's distracted again. Tim pushes his hair back, goes back to smearing black pencil around his eyes, tugging his lid to get at the waterline. He hears the bed squeak a bit and Tim turns, sees John rolling over. The sheet's come off him, and John's back is arched _just so_ , and Tim sighs.

“You ever gonna put your damn clothes on?” Tim remarks.

“Not till I _have_ to,” John says, sounding a little drowsy. He peers over his arm at Tim, lifts his hips up off the bed a little.

“John,” Tim says, huffing a laugh. “The driver's gonna be here in twenty minutes.”

“I can get dressed quick,” John says, waving his ass back and forth. Tim rolls his eyes, turns back to the mirror, caps his eyeliner.

“Just c'mere; I'll do your face for you,” Tim says. John sighs, but gets up. Victory. Tim smiles to himself, brings his hand up to smear at his lipstick, dragging color across his face, then filling his lips back in again. John leans against the counter, still very much not clothed. Fine. Tim'll concede on that battle.

“Can you smear mine a little too?” John asks, and Tim nods. Before all this, Tim had only done makeup on himself, but doing John's makeup had turned out to be oddly soothing. Truth be told, Tim's not used to all this _being on live TV_ shit. He still gets nerves. John's practically a seasoned professional. Besides, Tim's never one to turn down an excuse to stare at John's face for ten minutes.

Tim paints John's face, smudges black shadow onto his lids. John's face is soft like the rest of him, just a little angular at the edges, the point of his nose and the corners of his jaw. Tim holds John's head as he thumbs at the side of John's lips, smearing red just a little bit. John quickly catches Tim's thumb in his mouth, licking at it, sucking.

“ _John_ ,” Tim says.

“Hm?” John hums, even as Tim presses the pad of his thumb into John's tongue.

Which is when Tim gets an idea.

He pulls his thumb from John's mouth and John whines. Tim shushes him, picks up the open lipstick tube. He steadies John, backing him up into the counter, effectively pinning him in place as Tim puts lipstick to tattooed chest, writes, _NEEDY WHORE_.

“What does that say?” John says, trying to twist to read it in the mirror, but Tim keeps him still.

“Just finishing your makeup,” Tim remarks. “And it says _needy whore_.”

“Oh,” John says, shifting a little.

“Let's see. What else are you?” Tim muses, adding below John's kanji tattoo, _FUCK TOY_.

“Um. Slut?” John offers. Tim makes a face.

“C'mon, you can do better than that,” Tim says, but writes _SLUT_ below that anyway. “Turn around so I can use your back.” John does, gasps audibly at the sight of red lipstick in obscene words on him.

“Princess,” John says, “'cause you always call me that.” Tim smirks, writes it across his shoulders. “Cum dumpster,” John adds, voice a little softer.

“There we go,” Tim adds, turning the lipstick up to get more product before he adds that. “Oh, I have one.” _PROPERTY OF TIM,_ then an arrow pointing down to John's ass. “What to write on this cute little butt of yours?” John giggles, sounding musical, like every one of his noises does.

“How about fuck hole?” John says, peering back over his shoulder at Tim knelt behind him. Tim hums his approval, writes it down, one word on each cheek. Tim turns John back around, and he's level with John's cock, half hard. Tim plants a firm kiss at the base, leaving a lipstick mark. John shivers.

“Before you get dressed,” Tim says, getting up. He swears he hears John whine as he walks away to dig into his bag. “Face the mirror and close your eyes, okay?” Tim asks, and he hears John sigh, but when he looks back, John's turned away from him. Tim just smiles, walks back over with his things, and sets down the bottle of lube first. John would know the sound of that. Then he sets the plug down, metal loud on the granite counter. John gasps, startled, immediately looking down at it.

“Tim,” John says, sounding unhappy.

“You don't have to wear it if you don't want to,” Tim says. He brushes his fingers through John's hair.

“I just,” John says, looking into Tim's eyes in the mirror, “it's live TV.”

“Yes,” Tim says, nodding once. “Then we'll both be nervous for once, not just me.” John cracks a smile, laughs.

“You get nervous on live TV?” John asks, and Tim blushes a little. “ _Please_. My first show with this band was on live TV. You _baby_.”

“Shut up,” Tim says, trying not to smile. “So can I put this in your butt or not?”

“I see you attempting to change the subject,” John says, “but I'll let it slide. You definitely can.” Tim just grins, grabs the bottle of lube.

“I could get the lighter one if you want,” Tim says, as he's slicking over his fingers. He'd picked the heavier one, made of surgical steel, on purpose so John would feel it more. The silicone one doesn't have as much pull.

“Nah,” John says, purring as Tim's first fingers slide in to open him enough for the plug. “Besides, you brought the steel one for a reason, right? I forget about the silicone one 'cause it's so light. Can't ignore how heavy this one is. And you want me to have to think about it while we're in front of the cameras, right?”

“Stop it,” Tim remarks, rolling his eyes. “You're gonna give me a boner if you keep talking like that.” He pushes a third finger in, really pressing him, and John lets him in. “Sorry, wish I had more time to ease into it.”

“Just go ahead,” John says, nodding to the plug. “I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, and John nods again, so Tim pulls his fingers out, slicks the toy over with lube. He grips the base with his dry hand and pushes, and sure enough John's ass gives, easily to the widest part. “Almost there, babe,” Tim whispers, and John bites his lips together, bears down, till it sinks home. John gasps, rocking up onto his toes when Tim lets go.

“Shit,” John says, reaching back to adjust it a bit. “I forget how fucking heavy this thing is.”

“Get your clothes on,” Tim says, nuzzling John's shoulder. “Only a few minutes till the ride's here.”

//

Tim would normally spend any given car trip across Los Angeles internally lamenting the fact that the county hasn't bothered to repair a single pothole in the entire sixteen years Tim has lived here. Not today. Today, Tim fucking _loves_ potholes.

He never thought he'd be thankful for the California department of transportation being inefficient, but there's a first time for everything, apparently.

Tim's in the back of the van sitting next to John, who's visibly flushed even through the layer of Ben Nye clown white on his face. He can't keep his fucking eyes off him. Every crack in the highway, every pothole, every speed bump – John's mouth falls open, a silent moan. That was the thing about a plug so heavy. John's feeling _everything_.

Part of Tim wonders if John's regretting not opting for the silicone one.

They hit a speed bump at a particularly rough angle going into the studio parking lot, and John gasps audibly, lifts clear off the seat, leaning forward into the back of the seat in front of him. Tim catches his eyes and shoots him his best _you okay?_ look. John responds with his middle finger, and Tim winks back.

They're piled into the green room, where John eases himself down into a couch. Tim gets himself a drink and drops down next to him, sulking down so he's practically laying horizontal, resting his cup on one of his suspenders. Pogo's inventing some sort of beat with a pair of empty red Solo cups, Manson's pacing, swinging fists, and Ginger's fucking meditating. And they wait.

The funny thing about live TV that Tim had learned pretty quickly is that there's a hell of a lot of waiting, up until about a minute before things go live. Then it gets hellishly hectic, crew people ordering you into place, stylists fixing errant strands of hair or crooked ties, camera people rushing to push their equipment in.

It's silent for a long while aside from Pogo's plastic cup instrumentals, then they're ordered around by another crew person, who drags them outside to where the stage is, into a tent next to it, and then it's wait again.

John's standing near the edge of the tent, peeking between TV equipment at the crowd that's waiting. Mostly fans, they'd been told. People started camping out at six in the morning. Tim goes over to him, places a hand on John's back, over where he knows he wrote that John is his property. John starts a bit, palpably nervous. Tim smirks. They're even then, just as he'd joked. Not that anyone would be able to tell John's wearing a plug, or see anything written on him under his shirt. Still, Tim understands the anxiety, no matter how unwarranted.

“Hey,” Brian's voice says from behind them. Tim turns back. Brian looks pissed, brows furrowed.

“Hey?” Tim says, voice lifting it into a question.

“Listen,” Brian says, uncharacteristically quiet, “I don't know what kinda fucked up shit you two are up to tonight, but it better not fucking affect this performance, you assholes.” Tim stares at him. _What?_

“What are you-” he starts to say, but Brian interrupts.

“He has something in his ass and I know it,” Brian says, jabbing a finger into John's arm, “and I don't know what it is but I swear to god if he fucks up because of it I will personally rip it out like I'm starting a lawn mower and bludgeon you to death with it.”

“How can you fucking tell?” Tim blurts out, before he can stop himself. John sighs.

“Jeez Louise,” he mumbles, turning back away.

“You two are fucked up,” Brian says, giving each of them a disapproving look before going back to his space at the front of the tent.

“How can he tell?” Tim hisses, urgently grabbing John's arm.

“He's weird,” John says. “He just knows things.” Tim gives a long pause.

“He just... _knows things_?” he asks incredulously, squinting at John. John shrugs, gives a noncommittal hand gesture, and Tim sighs. Okay, so Brian could tell, but Brian probably has weird x-ray vision or something. He'll take John's word for it for now. No way anybody else would know.

Somebody yells that they're live in a minute, which is when shit gets chaotic. They're suddenly getting their mic packs plugged in and shoved onstage. Crew are yelling and Tim nearly spills his drink on Pogo in the stage rush.

Then, all of a sudden, somebody calls five seconds. And then it goes still again, static except for the crowd screaming, and the dancers finally shuffling in onstage, a few seconds late. Then they're live.

Tim faces Ginger, tries to stay out of the shot, even though Jimmy Kimmel is like, right fucking behind him. Ginger shoots him a thumbs up and Tim gives him a nod back. Ginger doesn't look nervous, but then again, Ginger never looks nervous. Ginger's done this a billion times. Ginger's been live on the VMAs twice. The AMAs. The EMAs. Ginger's been meditating for the past twenty minutes and is probably on another plane of existence right now.

“Every parent's worst nightmare,” Jimmy Kimmel calls them. Tim tries not to roll his eyes at that.

The performance goes well, as far as performances with Manson tend to go, in that it's slightly chaotic and something almost goes wrong. But nothing does, which is the important part. Tim shoots looks across the stage at John, who's staying diligently in his designated corner of stage left, definitely not looking over at Tim.

But nobody fucks up. More importantly, Tim doesn't fuck up, which is probably good, as far as job security goes.

Manson does ask Monica Lewinsky if he can come on her dress, and maybe sexually assaults Jimmy Kimmel. Tim downs his drink, gestures to the nearest crew member for another one. He wonders if they'll have to bleep the word _come_ in that context.

Tim doesn't actually catch John's eyes till Kimmel is doing his closing spiel, and John's lipstick is smeared halfway across his face by now. _When will he learn to stop wiping the sweat off his mouth on the back of his hand_ , Tim thinks. Then, _oh_. He's giving him _the look_. Because John gets this look when he's pent up as fuck, bats his lashes at Tim, all bedroom eyes and teeth digging into his lip. Except that's usually a _strictly in private_ kind of look. And John's giving it to him _on live television_.

Tim shoots a prayer to whatever deity may exist that the camera is not on John at that moment. Also not on him. But especially not John.

Tim just raises a brow, turning away to take a drink. Jesus Christ.

They're herded offstage just as quickly, escorted directly back to the van, where thankfully there are no cops there to arrest Brian for sexual harassment or anything like that.

They sit in the back row again. Tim sits first, watching as John carefully sits down, easing himself into the seat. He shifts a little, adjusting. The van hits the same speed bump on the way out, and John's hand shoots up to cover his mouth, making a loud gasp sucked between his fingers and some muffled noise that gets drowned out by Brian yelling about how Clinton shouldn't have had impeachment proceedings brought on by a blowjob. Tim leans close in to John's ear.

“Your ass tired yet?” Tim says, voice quiet.

“Fuck off,” John hisses back through gritted teeth. He whines once. “I'm mad at you right now.”

“Don't be mad at me because you fucked up and didn't pick silicone,” Tim remarks, giving John a playful shove. John whines again, pouting. The van hits a pothole. Tim glances down and has to bite his lips together. John's fucking hard. Tim reaches at it and John grabs his wrist to stop him, giving him the most intimidating look he can manage, which is not unlike a house cat imitating a lion. Tim stifles a laugh.

“I _hate_ you,” John says.

“Okay, babe,” Tim replies. They hit another pothole. John gasps, clamps his hand over his mouth. He looks fucking _appealing_. Tim could practically devour him right here in the van in the middle of highway 110 traffic. His head is rushing with awful things to do to John the second they're safely in their hotel room.

Tim hadn't anticipated he'd be just as wound up by this as John.

He's also not sure it's healthy to be hard for as long as it takes for the van to get back to the hotel. It's past midnight but there's never not traffic in LA. Tim keeps having to think up unappealing things to keep it down as best he can manage. Which is difficult when your boyfriend is sitting next to you, grinding himself down into the car seat, trying to get some friction and pressure and movement.

John Lowery is terribly distracting. Tim's had the thought before. Certainly, he'll have it again.

//

The hotel room door is barely shut behind them by the time John's being slammed into the nearest wall. They're trying to wrestle each other's clothes off enough to fuck, and hands are grabbing; John gets Tim's cock out and Tim's shoving John's pants down. Tim turns him around, shoves him into the wall, and John arches back at him, the words on his ass red and smeared.

“Fuck me you asshole,” John grits out, hand reaching for Tim's dick to pull him inside, but Tim's trying to get a grip on the lubed base of the plug inside him still.

“I have to take this out first,” Tim retorts back, finally getting his fingers under the edge and pulling.

“Hurry up!” John whines.

“Let it out,” Tim says. “You're holding it in.” John grumbles an irritated noise, but manages to relax enough for Tim to get the plug out. Tim chucks it in the direction of the bed but isn't sure where it lands. Shit.

“Get your fucking cock in me,” John demands, and Tim doesn't even bother with fingers, knows John's already open enough for him, guides the head in and hilts himself in one hard thrust. “Fuck,” John chokes out, hand splayed on the wall. Tim grabs him by the throat from behind, starts fucking into him rough and fast, groaning into John's shoulder in relief.

“Fucking whore,” Tim spits, and John rocks back at him, meeting him in the middle every time Tim dicks into him. “Your fuck hole's so loose I didn't even have to stretch you open.”

“God, yes, fuck,” John gasps, head falling back. Tim doesn't choke him, just holds him by his neck, other hand's nails digging into John's hip. “Fuck me; I want you to come inside me--”

“Dirty fucking slut,” Tim says, voice thin. He's already near there, chasing his orgasm, quick deep strokes. “M'gonna come in your fucking ass, Christ--”

“Yeah, now?” John pants, looking back, obviously surprised but clearly fucking eager for it, nodding quickly.

“I'm gonna,” Tim says, burying his face into John's neck and his length in his ass, stilling as his cock jerks and spills hot and deep inside him. Tim growls into John's skin, grinds into him, rides it out. John swears under his breath. Tim stays still for a moment, loosens his grip on John's neck, and eases himself out.

“No, no, don't-” John starts to say, grabs at Tim to try to pull him back inside, but Tim just grabs back at him and throws John in the direction of the bed. John scrambles up onto all fours, pants around his knees and ass in the air, open and leaking.

“God, you look like a fucking slut,” Tim says, kneeing up behind him, spreading John open wider. “Bet I could fit my whole fist in here. Bet two dicks could fit in here.”

“Tim, c'mon,” John groans, pushing his ass into Tim's hands, and Tim lets go before bringing both palms down hard on him, the loud smack echoing through the room.

“Whore,” Tim spits out, shoving three fingers into John's open ass. “Dirty fucking whore.” John practically melts into the bed as Tim uses his whole arm to fuck John with his fingers, his own come slicking them over, leaking out of John's hole.

“Oh, fuck,” John moans, voice shaking with pleasure or just the force of being fucked by Tim's hand. Tim gets his fourth finger in, hand sinking in to the crook of his thumb, all the way to the palm. He turns his hand, curls his fingers in, and John moans so loud it breaks. The wet slick of lube and come is audible even over John's voice.

“Come on my fucking hand,” Tim demands, other hand smearing lipstick down John's thigh.

“Uh huh,” John pants, nodding, and Tim keeps fucking him with his hand, John's cock jerking at nothing. “Please, please, fuck--”

“Come, whore,” Tim says, voice demanding, and John gasps, face smeared against the bed, lips both bitten and painted red. John pushes back at Tim's hand again and Tim feels it, feels John come undone, clenched tight around his hand as he comes untouched, shuddering and hard.

“Fuck,” John chokes out, letting Tim rub at his insides, thighs shaking under him.

“Good boy,” Tim mumbles, sliding his fingers out. His hand is covered in his own come, and he wipes it across John's ass, smearing lipstick with it. It strings between his fingers when he lifts his hand to spank him again. “God, your ass is wide fucking open.”

“Mm,” John whines, flopping over onto his side. He's flushed red, panting, chasing his breath. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Same,” Tim murmurs. He lays next to John, admires him looking so beautifully well fucked. “I should wash my hands.”

“No,” John whispers, grabbing at one of Tim's suspenders.

“Babe,” Tim says, letting John pull him closer anyway, “if I don't I'm gonna have come dried between my fingers and that's gross.” John sighs.

“Fine,” he says, pursing his lips for a kiss. As Tim's leaning in, there's a knock at the hotel room door.

“ _För fan i helvete_ ,” Tim grumbles, squeezing his eyes closed. Who the fuck. He gestures to John that he'll be right back and stands up somehow, tucks his dick away, and shuffles his way to the door, where he opens it with his clean hand just enough to peer through the crack.

“Hey,” Brian says. Tim opens the door a tick further. Brian's cleaned off his makeup and is wearing a t-shirt. “Are... are you done already?” Tim narrows his eyes at him. Brian sounds... _disappointed_.

“Fuck off, Brian,” Tim says, too fucked out to sound properly angry, and tries to shut the door, but Brian sneaks his steel-toed boot in the way.

“Is my guitarist alive in there?” Brian asks, trying to look past Tim.

“M'fine,” John calls.

“He's fine,” Tim says. “I really need to wash my hands, so. What do you want?”

“Just wanted to make sure you two were still alive,” Brian says. Tim feels his face burning and Brian grins. “I take it you're alright.”

“We're fine,” Tim says. “Now can you please move your foot so I can close this door.”

“You perverts could've ruined my show,” Brian says, boot not moving in the slightest. Tim sighs. “Y'know, I would've had to go in there and spank you both.” Tim just stares at him, mouth opening as if to say something, but nothing comes out. “Or just invite me next time. Goodnight.” Brian takes his boot back and gives Tim a wave. Tim closes the door.

“Did he threaten to spank both of us?” Tim asks, once his hands are washed and his stage clothes are off.

“Yeah,” John says, naked by then except for the blurred lipstick words on his skin. “I told you he's weird like that.”

“I guess,” Tim mumbles. “Want me to draw you a bath?” John sits up on the bed, yawns.

“That sounds amazing,” he says. “Will you join me?” Tim's exhausted, but he nods anyway.


End file.
